I am one of the specimens in the collection. And when I try to flutter my little wings to break free from the line, he harbors the deepest hatred towards me. I must be dead, impaled on a pin, always the same, always beautiful, pleasing to the eye. He understands that part of my beauty is a result of being alive. But he doesn't truly want me to be alive. I must be alive, but as if I were dead. Today I felt this especially clearly. The fact that I am alive, not always the same, that I don't think like he does, that I can be in a bad mood - all of this starts to irritate him.

He is made of iron, heavy, carved from a single block. He cannot be moved. He cannot be persuaded. Once he showed me a vessel. It's called "the stainer". It puts butterflies to sleep. And here I am, sitting in such a stainer. Beating my wings against the glass. Because it is transparent, it seems to me that escape is possible. That there is hope. But it is all just an illusion.